


And The Dust Will Still

by Nellie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Dubious Consent, Happy Ending, M/M, Rough Sex, Violence, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellie/pseuds/Nellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames dies, but sticks around as a zombie rather than have himself decapitated. This takes some getting used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Dust Will Still

**Author's Note:**

> Elements of this verse (notably the zombie control collar) adapted from the movie [_Fido_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fido_\(film\)). It’s one of my favourites, and in my head this fic is basically that world 60 years in the future.

“The technology and treatments are definitely better than they were fifty years ago,” Dr. Henrikson says, shuffling the papers on his lap. “But you do need to be aware, it’s still not perfect. Have you attended the counselling sessions?”

Arthur nods. He’s not looking at the doctor. He’s looking at the third, empty armchair in the homey consultation room; at the brochures lined up on the bookshelf behind it with their titles showing. _Zombie Collar Maintenance For Families_. _Preparing Your Home For A New Zombie Arrival._ _Zombie Aggression and You_.

The doctor turns over another piece of paper. “And you haven’t seen Eames since the accident?”

“I really don’t think I’d call being stabbed nine times in the back an ‘accident’, but no, I haven’t,” Arthur says. “I’ve already discussed all this with the zombie liaison and a psychologist, so can we please move on?”

Henrikson opens his mouth, then closes it again and adjusts his glasses. “Of course. One moment.”

He leave through the second door in the room, closing it behind him.

Arthur sighs, fingers tensing against the plush upholstery. It’s meant to be comforting; a nice, normal, familiar room to ease the strain of seeing an undead loved one for the first time, but the orchestrated fakeness of it is just scraping at Arthur’s nerves. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it’s a shitty first attempt at a dreamscape, too bright and perfect to be real.

The door swings open again, and Arthur tenses.

Eames looks good. Really fucking good, compared to a lot of zombies. Arthur’s stomach knots at how long it’s been since he’s seen those broad shoulders fill out a doorway. But it’s still obvious, from the grey tinge around his eyes and the dark stains at the tips of his fingers where the blood pools, and the keen anticipation in Arthur’s gut twists into something far more uncertain.

They stare at each other, and Arthur wonders if he looks just as different to Eames now.

Dr. Henrikson clears his throat. “Take a seat.”

Arthur’s not sure if he’s meant to look at the doctor or at Eames, even though he can still feel Eames’s eyes on him after they both sit down.

“Now, I know you’ve both been preparing for this, but be aware that things might be more difficult than you anticipate at first.” He hands Arthur a few sheets from his pile of papers. “That said, if you’re both ready, let’s get these papers signed so you can go home.”

*

Eames doesn’t say anything, even during the drive home, and Arthur chews on his bottom lip and resists the urge to talk at him. _Speech can be difficult for zombies and your loved one might be frustrated by their inability to communicate with you like they used to. Let them set the pace of conversation._

A month of counselling and classes is nowhere near enough.

Arthur parks the car and waits to make sure Eames is okay with the seatbelt and the door before getting out. He wipes his hands on his trousers as he walks up to unlock the door and takes a deep breath.

This is a good thing, he reminds himself as he flicks the lights on. It wouldn’t be his choice... it’ll never be his choice, because he’s already had all the legal documents prepared and signed to state he wants to be fucking decapitated the second his heart stops beating. But it was Eames’, and it means he didn’t have to bury him, so Arthur can adjust. He’s good at adjusting.

“I set up the spare room for you,” Arthur says, leaning back against the kitchen bench as Eames looks around like he’s seeing the house for the first time. “The liaison said you should have somewhere private, if you want to be alone.”

Eames looks at him then, takes a step forward, and Arthur’s fingers clench reflexively against the benchtop. He’s shot zombies before, and it’s harder than it should be to remember that this is still Eames.

His body definitely remembers when Eames takes another step forward, remembers how fucking good all that muscle feels pressing him down, how much he loves leaning against that broad chest and watching stupid shit on T.V on Saturday nights when they’re not working.

“Arthur,” Eames murmurs as his hands curve over Arthur’s hips, tentative pressure that Arthur isn’t sure he likes or is terrified of. There’s only inches between them now and Arthur grips the bench harder.

Eames leans a little closer to rest his nose against Arthur’s hair, and it’s familiar and comfortable enough to ease some of the tension out of Arthur’s muscles. He lifts his hands to Eames’s biceps, squeezes, and _fuck_ , he really has missed this.

“I missed you,” Arthur says, trying to take in the new, earthier smell of him. Different, and tinged with the slightly overripe smell even the freshest and best preserved zombies have.

The thought is enough to make him tense. Eames is a fucking zombie. This is real life. He eyes the black metal collar sitting snug around Eames’s throat, green lights glowing gently. If not for that scrap of technology, he’d want to rip Arthur open and eat him alive, and Arthur’s heart kicks into painful overdrive.

Eames pulls back, a slight frown curving the edges of his mouth. If Arthur ignores the discoloured tinges, ignores how different he smells, looking Eames in the eyes is exactly the same as it used to be.

 _If you feel overwhelmed by the changes in your loved one, find something that is the same, and focus on it._

Arthur lets out a breath as Eames lifts one hand to stroke his cheek, before stepping away.

“Want to rest.” His voice thick, like it’s hard for him to force his tongue around the sounds.

“Sure,” Arthur says, not sure what else he can say, whether he should go too, if he’s ready to let that undead body hold him, if this is some kind of test.

Eames looks at him for a second more, before turning down the hallway to the spare room.

*

“So, how are you guys going, anyway?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and shifts the phone to his other ear. Of course Dom isn’t just calling to say hi. “Good.” He looks over at the kitchen table where Eames is holding a scalpel and a pair of tweezers, brow furrowed as he tries to mock up fake passports with the same precision he used to have. “Mostly good,” Arthur amends, leaning against the wall. “It’s... hard. Sometimes.”

“I know you’re tough, but I’d honestly be a lot more worried if you _didn’t_ think it’s hard,” Dom says.

“Yeah. It’ll be okay.” He hopes.

“Well. I’ve got a job, if you think Eames is up to it. All legal, nothing dangerous. It might do you good to get out together again.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “Zombies can’t dream, Dom.”

“No, but Eames’ skill set has always been a lot wider than what he’s capable of when he’s under.”

It’s true, but Arthur doesn’t bother to point out that Eames’ real life skills have suffered just as badly from his new condition. He’ll relearn most of it, in the end. “No thanks. I mean, I’ll call you when we want to start looking again.”

“Call me for anything, okay?”

“I will. Bye.”

Arthur sighs and sets the phone back down in its cradle. When he turns around, Eames is standing right there, closer than he should have been able to get without him noticing. Arthur swallows the thought and hopes he didn’t startle too noticeably. “How’re the passports going?”

Instead of answering, Eames holds out a piece of paper. He still doesn’t like talking more than he has to, even though the speech therapist is constantly telling him he needs to. Their fingers brush as Arthur takes it, and the contact is enough to make him shiver.

 _You should take the damn job._

“I don’t want to,” Arthur mutters, crumpling the paper in his hand.

Eames frowns at him and holds out something else. It’s one of the passports, British, his own picture next to an unfamiliar name and date of birth. It’s... far better than he might have assumed it would be. Definitely not perfect, not to Eames’s usual standard, but usable.

“We’ll choose something together,” Arthur says, handing the passport back. “Dom thinks we want some nice little legal thing gift-wrapped, and I don’t know about you, but fucked if I’m settling for that.”

Eames laughs, low, huskier than before, and it’d be sexy as fuck if the first thing on Arthur’s mind wasn’t the fact that the only reason Eames sounds that way is because he’s _dead_. “Agreed.”

There’s an awkward beat, like so many they’ve had in the last week. Odd little hiccups where they’d usually touch, or kiss, or do _something_. But Eames isn’t pushing, and Arthur’s not ready to reach out yet. He stares at Eames’ mouth for a second. It’d be so easy to take that step forward and kiss him. Maybe his tongue is as cool as the tips of his fingers. Maybe it’d even feel good, cold and slick as Eames shoves him up against the wall and kisses him like he doesn’t give a fuck that Arthur still has to breathe.

Arthur bites his lip. “I’ll send some emails, see if anything comes up.”  
Eames nods, and lets him walk away.

*

Things do get better, slowly. Having Eames’ presence in the house again is a comforting relief; a useful one, too, especially now he has the unnatural zombie strength.

“Put it down over there,” Arthur calls from the front step as Eames dumps the old gun safe on the front lawn, and he’s glad that they live so far away from any neighbours.

Eames stretches in the sunlight. He’s not sweating, and that’s definitely something else Arthur is going to miss, but his muscles still flex in ways that do terrible things to Arthur’s ability to concentrate on the task at hand.

“Where’s the other one?” Eames says, pulling his shirt out of his belt where he tucked it earlier and throwing it.

Arthur manages to catch it before it hits him in the face, but he can still smell Eames; a smell that’s reminding him less and less of shooting feral living corpses in London and more of how much he misses sharing the bed with Eames’s bulk. “In the garage,” he says. “I’ll open the door and hold the top end.”

He still stares when Eames turns away, at the way the ripple of thick muscle is marred by the nine wounds held together by careful stitches. They’d make impressive scars, something Arthur might enjoy running his hands over, but of course they’re never going to heal.

The new gun safe is easily twice as big, which is exactly why Arthur wanted it, but it makes it twice as hard to manoeuvre through the house to the master bedroom. Even with his new strength Eames’ shoulders bunch with the effort, and there’s nothing to stop the way Arthur’s stomach flips at the sight.

“Back in the closet?” Eames grunts.

“Yeah,” Arthur gets out, nudging the door aside with his elbow and backing into the closet.

It’s almost claustrophobic inside, with the clothes shoved aside and the safe taking up most of the space. Even more claustrophobic when the safe is finally in place, and Eames is between Arthur and the door.

Arthur glances past him to the bed. Two months since he saw Eames die, two months since they touched, _really_ touched. It’s so stupid to be jerking off and sleeping alone in their bed when Eames is just down the hall, and Arthur shivers when Eames lifts a hand a presses it against the wall, boxing him in further.  
“Hey,” he murmurs, nosing at Arthur’s temple.

There’s no heat coming off him, no rush of warmth as he exhales against Arthur’s hair. Arthur closes his eyes. He could say a single word and be on his back on the bed with Eames between his legs in less than a heartbeat, but all that comes out is a shaky breath.

“I need a shower,” he says, opening his eyes.

The collar blinks in the shadows of the closet, proof that he’s safe, but for a split second Arthur’s not sure if Eames is going to back off or if he’s going to push harder, if he’s going to snap.

“Okay.” Eames steps back, wiping his hands on his track pants.

Soon, Arthur thinks as he watches him go before stripping off his shirt and throwing it into the ensuite hamper. Soon he’ll ask.

He runs the shower hot and just enjoys the spray. It’s not like it’ll even be that different, touching Eames, letting himself be touched. He’s done his research. There’s not even any way for fluid exchange or physical contact to pass on the condition.

Arthur rests his head against the warm tile. There’s nothing to be afraid of, except for the fact Eames is a walking corpse with a collar to keep him human rather than rabid.

The forgery work Eames has been doing is proof enough that his hands still have it, and just thinking about the kinds of things Eames is capable of doing with his hands is enough to make Arthur’s cock jerk with interest.

No toy can match how real, skilled fingers feel inside, and Arthur snaps open a bottle of body wash before he’s even really decided what he’s going to do. He’s breathing fast as he slicks his fingers and spreads his legs a little wider, bracing one forearm against the tile for balance so he can reach back and stroke himself. Just two wet fingertips rubbing over his hole, and he moans at the pressure. It’s definitely been too fucking long.

He arches his back to get a better angle and eases his fingers in. It’s warm, tight, and Eames’s fingers would be cool and so much thicker. Different, but just as knowing as they always used to be when they pushed deep and stroked and teased until Arthur came all over his stomach without a single touch to his cock.

Arthur twists his fingers deeper, tipping his head forward onto his arm. “Oh fuck,” he groans, finding the same spot Eames always worked mercilessly and pressing down hard. His cock jerks against his stomach. “ _Eames_.”

“I can help with that.”  
Arthur yelps at the sudden movement on the other side of the shower curtain, lashing out with one fist and slipping, barely catching himself with the shower head.

A loud crack says the intruder--fuck, _Eames_ \--wasn’t so lucky.

Arthur tugs the curtain aside, pulse still pounding from a mix of worked up arousal and instinctive fear. Eames is naked, sprawled with his back to the vanity, head slumped forward, and Arthur has a sick surge of fear that’s all too similar to how he felt when he saw that hit man drive his knife home between Eames’s shoulder blades.

“Eames?” he says, groping for a towel. “Are you okay?”

“I’m...yeah,” Eames says, lifting his head. “Sorry. I--”

He twitches, and there’s a brief, gut-wrenching instant of realisation as their eyes meet and the green lights on the collar flicker for a second.

“Get the fuck out,” Eames growls.

Arthur scrambles for the ensuite door as the collar lights change to red, manages to slam it closed before Eames stands up.

The door frame shakes with a heavy thud a second later.

Most of the best guns are in the living room laid out on the floor from the safe swap still, but instinct kicks in and Arthur goes for the bedside table. There’s an old Glock in the second drawer that’s always loaded, and his fingers curl around the worn grip just as the sound of wood splintering fills the room.

Being literally naked and exposed does nothing to settle the panic trying to overpower every inch of training and logic holding Arthur steady, but he lifts the gun and sights down the line to Eames’ face. Dark blood oozes down from his hairline as he snarls, snapping his teeth.

 _Shoot. Fucking shoot. Clean shot. Shoot._

Arthur hesitates, water dripping down his skin, and Eames growls like some wild, horrible thing.

Then he charges.

*

Arthur forgot how fucking fast a fresh zombie can _move_. Eames hits him hard, smacking the gun out of his hand and knocking him back a couple of steps onto the bed. He’s heavy, snapping his teeth inches from Arthur’s face. Arthur thrashes under the weight, trying to ignore the warm thrill just beneath the fear. This isn’t their usual games. This isn’t Eames holding him down and growling filthy things about how many times he’s going to make him come. “Eames,” Arthur gasps, bracing his hands against Eames’s shoulders and shoving as hard as he can. “Stop. Please stop.”

Even if Eames understands him at all, the only reaction is a louder snarl as Eames presses down harder, forcing Arthur’s knees apart until they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip.

Arthur kicks out, but Eames was heavy and strong before he died, let alone now. “ _Eames_.”

Eames lowers his head and vicious pain tears through Arthur’s shoulder, right where it starts to curve into his neck, and it’s not until something warm and wet runs across his skin that he realises Eames is biting him.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip, willing himself to go still. Don’t panic. Don’t act like living prey. He twitches when Eames grunts and bites deeper, tonguing at the torn flesh, and lifts his other hand to reach for the emergency reboot at the back of the collar.

It’s supposed to make it easier to reach without having to put yourself in a wild zombie’s line of sight, but Arthur chokes down the pain and the panic and fumbles for the fucking switch. His fingers brush the cool bumps of Eames’s spine, and Eames growls around his mouthful of Arthur’s shoulder and shifts his hips.

His cock is hard, like his body remembers what being this close used to mean, and Arthur squirms even though he knows he shouldn’t as it rubs up against his hole where he’s still slick from his own fingers.

Arthur scrabbles harder for the switch. “Don’t,” he says, torn between the pain and the desperate urge he has to feel that cock inside him again. “Please, no, fuck--” his fingers skim the switch, and he presses down as hard as he can.

Eames’s teeth sink deeper, and for a horrible second Arthur doesn’t think it worked. Then the lights on the collar blink, before settling onto the familiar, safe green.

Arthur lets out a shaky breath, flexing his fingers where the cold, hard metal of the collar meets the cold, soft skin. He hurts, but not enough to try to push Eames away. His knees are trembling on either side of Eames’s hips, and even though Eames isn’t breathing, even though he smells different, maybe...

Eames lifts his head, and Arthur’s heart kicks with fear. The collar lights are green, but Eames isn’t looking down at him like he usually would. There’s blood smeared across his mouth, and when he bares his teeth in a low growl it drips from his teeth and splatters Arthur’s cheek.

“I’m going to move now,” he says, hoping Eames is at least close enough to normal to understand.

This time he tries to wriggle out from under Eames’s bulk, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder, but he doesn’t get far before Eames’s hand closes over his throat. Not hard, just enough pressure to make it obvious how easily that broad hand could choke the life out of him if Eames wanted to do it. Arthur can’t help the way he relaxes into it, how quickly he goes passive under the familiar weight of that hand even though it _isn’t_ alive anymore.

“You have to let go,” Arthur says, before the comforting throb of his pulse against Eames’s fingers can lull him too far into complacency.

Eames shifts his weight but leaves his hand where it is, and Arthur sucks in a breath as his cock nudges against him again, with more purpose this time. “Eames, I--”

There’s no denying the way his whole body shudders when Eames nuzzles at his neck before biting down, gentle, a possessive scrape of teeth over his pulse; enough control to prove he’s not about to get mauled if he moves wrong.

Arthur turns his head towards Eames, nose brushing his cool cheek, but hesitates when Eames growls and bites harder. This is different; dangerous, and the blood dripping down his collarbone is proof enough of that.

He kisses Eames’s cheek anyway, doesn’t jerk away when Eames bites up along his jaw until their lips brush.

“Please,” Arthur whispers, hands tensing on Eames’s shoulders.

Eames snarls against his mouth, and kisses him.

His lips are cold and Arthur can taste his own blood on them, but it feels so fucking good to have Eames’s tongue in his mouth again that he can’t bring himself to care. He leans up into it, ignoring the twist of pain in his shoulder, and tangles his fingers into Eames’s hair to pull him closer.

Eames makes a feral sound and grabs his wrist, pinning it down against the bed and licking at the traces of blood on Arthur’s lips before kissing him again. It’s hard and breathless and almost enough to fill the gap the last two months have left. Arthur tries to tug his hand free and Eames just tightens his grip, almost painful around the bones of Arthur’s wrist. He’s holding Arthur down like he knows what he wants and he’s going to _take_ it, and Arthur sobs out a breath.

They’re still kissing when Eames reaches down to tuck a hand under Arthur’s knee, splaying his fingers across the back of his thigh and pushing it up higher so he can shove in without warning.

Arthur cries out at the sudden stretch, hard and fast and almost the wrong side of painful. He arches into it, spreads his legs wider and takes it just the same way he always has, and for an instant it’s like nothing ever changed.

Then Eames is kissing him again, bloody, snarling into his mouth and holding his leg up higher so he can fuck him into the mattress. Arthur runs his free hand down Eame’s back, hesitating at the bristling knots of the stitches holding him together. He shudders and gasps as Eames bites at his throat, not sure if he’s disgusted or just aroused, and then grabs the flexing muscle of his ass to urge him deeper.

The springs squeak as they settle into a familiar, hard rhythm. As rough as they usually are with each other, as bulky as Eames is, he never had the power to fuck Arthur like this before; so hard he can barely even roll his hips up to meet each thrust.

“Oh fuck,” Arthur says, trying to breathe even though Eames seems intent on fucking it right out of him. “Fuck, _Eames_.”

“Arthur,” Eames growls back, biting at Arthur’s lower lip before all his muscles flex and he rolls them.

Arthur rests his hands on Eames’s chest, disorientated and far more focused on how different Eames’s cock feels from this angle. There’s no rise or fall or heartbeat pounding beneath his ribs, and if that weren’t enough to drive home the fact he’s letting his dead boyfriend fuck him, Eames’s face would be. The blood smeared across his mouth is starting to dry, teeth still pink with it when he bares them in a growl. His eyes are feral and hungry as he stares up at Arthur like he wants to eat him alive.

The thought makes Arthur moan and he rocks back harder onto Eames’s cock, tests the way his hips spread his legs just the way he remembers it. Eames is cooler, the collar still flashing like a fucking time bomb, but Arthur pants and grinds himself down harder. Eames’s fingers clench on his upper thighs, pressing hard enough to draw bruises. Arthur lets those stained fingers control the pace and, oh fuck, he’s missed this.

“I’m gonna--” Arthur gasps around the rest of the sentence as Eames tugs harder on his hips.

 _Do it,_ Eames mouths, rocking him faster.

Arthur looks at his bloody face, feels the cold pressure of his fingers, and for a second he’s not sure he wants to come if it means admitting that Eames still gets him so fucking hot that he doesn’t even need to touch his own cock.

“Come for me,” Eames growls, low and gravelly, and for the first time it sparks something desperate under Arthur’s skin instead of making him flinch away.

His stomach tenses and he comes, shaking, splattering the still muscle of Eames’s chest and stomach.

*

Eames must have washed his face when he went to get the first aid kit. Arthur sits on the edge of the bed and watches him pull out antiseptic swabs and fish hook needles, so completely human again that the last twenty minutes could almost be a dream.

The sharp pain in his shoulder says otherwise. There’s the familiar ache between his thighs, too, that well-used feeling that he’s missed a lot more than he’ll ever care to admit.

Arthur swallows hard. “Eames.”

Eames ignores him, wiping at the bite with one of the swabs. Arthur shivers at the cold sting and lets him work for a minute, hands a little shaky but otherwise sure as they’ve been a thousand times before when they’ve patched each other up after tight scrapes. Except this time... Arthur closes his eyes at the memory of Eames’s teeth sinking into him, the harsh weight of his body pinning him down. “It’s okay, Eames.”

“It’s fucking not,” Eames says, tossing the bloody swab aside and picking up a clean one. “I almost killed you. I _wanted_ to kill you.”

Even though that was already self-evident, it’s different hearing Eames _say_ it. “But you didn’t.”

Eames snorts and swaps the swab for the hooked needle. “No. But I know you’ve been scared. You didn’t even want to touch me, let alone...” he trails off, pinching skin together and threading the needle through. Arthur struggles not to flinch. “And that’s how you felt before, so I can’t even imagine how much much you must hate me now.”

It’s more words at once than Eames has said over the last week put together, and Arthur stares. “I don’t hate you,” he says softly, feeling the sharp tugs in his skin as Eames stitches him back together. “You deliberately sold me out that time in Italy, and even that didn’t make me hate you. You fucking _died_ and that didn’t make me hate you.”

Eames is focusing on the bite, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. “I’m dangerous.”

Arthur’s heart pounds, and he shifts uncomfortably. It’s true. Eames _is_ dangerous now, far more dangerous than he ever used to be. “Every fucking thing we do is dangerous. That’s how you ended up dead in the first place.”

“You should go rinse that and then swab it again,” Eames says.

He could argue, push the point, but they’ve been together long enough for Arthur to know how to pick his battles. He gets up, tentatively testing whether or not his legs will actually hold him after the rush of fear and the entirely unexpected orgasm, and pads into the ensuite.

The stitches are a little clumsy but effective enough. Arthur runs his fingers across the bristling knots, traces the uneven convex lines scored into his skin. There’s no doubt that it’ll scar, and the thought of wearing Eames’s mark on his skin for the rest of his life is such a sudden turn on that he sucks in a breath.

He leans over the sink and rinses the last smears of blood from his shoulder and chest before rinsing the taste of it from his mouth. It’s enough to make him feel almost normal again, and he’s about to turn around when Eames walks up behind him, a solid, comforting presence.

Arthur looks at him in the mirror, not sure if he should lean back against him or not.

“I should go,” Eames murmurs, tipping his head forward just enough to nose at Arthur’s hair.

“Do you _want_ to go?” Arthur asks, closing his eyes and gripping the edge of the vanity. Yeah, he’s been scared. But if Eames says he wants to leave, wants to leave _him_...

“Arthur,” Cool lips brush the back of Arthur’s neck, and he shivers as fingers that are just as cool slide up over his hip to stroke his belly. “Fuck, Arthur, I still _want_ you.”

Eames’s voice is even rougher than usual, slurring over the words, but it doesn’t matter. It’s different, and dangerous, but they’ve worked out worse things before. They can work out this.

Arthur turns to face him. Neither of them move, and it feels so wrong to be so close and not close that space. So Arthur reaches up, slowly, giving Eames time to back away if he wants, and cups his face in his hands.

Their lips slide together gently this time, with no blood to drown out the familiar taste and feel of skin on skin. It’s chaste and gentle, a soft press of lips that sets a slow warmth blooming just under Arthur’s skin.

He pulls back just enough to look at Eames, take in the pallor of his skin and the grey around his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

“Come to bed with me.”  



End file.
